Mr Perfect and the Dead Young Wolf
by Min Daae
Summary: Galad and Robb meet. There is tea. And spoilers for A Song of Ice and Fire series.


The Captain Commander of the Children of the Light stared down at the young man on the ground in front of him with the utmost confusion.

Galadedrid Damodred liked his world to make sense. He liked things to be orderly and sensible and regular. Of course, irregularities did happen, but they were always solvable, and most of them didn't involve whole people seemingly falling from the sky, _thank you very much. _

The boy from the sky in question was bloodstained, clothed in a grey and white tunic, and looked gravely wounded – gravely dead, really, to be entirely honest. But he was definitely still breathing, and easily enough, too, and stirring as though about to wake besides. The entirety of his command and some who denied being part of his command at all were watching him, expecting a miraculous answer.

He decided that it might be best if no one saw him looking too confused. "Back to work," he said firmly, and to his immense relief, everyone obeyed, and were out of earshot before the boy's blue eyes snapped open.

"What the _hell _is going on here?"

It occurred to Galad to mention that this stranger had some nerve saying that, but he held his tongue. On that front, at least. "—ah. Greetings, from the Captain Commander of the Children of the-" The young man seemed to be attempting to drag himself up, which didn't seem to be wise, considering how covered in blood he was. He looked unsteady. "See here," Galad interrupted himself to say, "You've been wounded, by all means-"

The look the boy gave him was withering in the extreme. "I've been _dead. _Or I should be, and if I'm not I need to get back to the Twins and kill some bloody Freys before they murder my army." He scrutinized Galad for a moment. "Luckily for you, you do not seem to be one of them."

Affronted at being interrupted, Galad drew himself up. "Who are _you?_"

The boy straightened, and to Galad's chagrin was taller than him by nearly half a head. And broader, too, built more stockily. His stare was icy. "I could ask you the same question."

Galad coughed, wondering if the fact that he had already attempted to answer that very question and been interrupted would be picked up. It wasn't. "If you're supposed to be dead, why are you here," he asked, and wasn't that a surreal question. So ghosts were walking, yes, but none of them were solid, and _none _of them talked back.

"I don't know. Your name, ser."

Galad searched for another reason to stall, but could find nothing. "Galadedrid Damodred, Captain Commander of the Children of the Light," he said, hoping to illicit some reaction.

He was sorely disappointed. "I see. You haven't said where I am."

"The north of Amidicia," Galad said, promptly, and the boy looked at him as thought he were insane.

"The north of what?"

Galad could see a few people poking their heads out and looking curious, some more nervously than others. He cleared his throat and raised his voice conspicuously, making an executive decision that perhaps this conversation would be better held somewhere a bit more private. "Inside, perhaps," he suggested, with an attempt at diplomacy, "I have a tent…"

The look the boy shot him was halfway between scathing and considering. "And something to drink. That would be nice."

"Water?"

"Something stronger."

"I have tea," Galad offered helpfully, and the mysterious boy sighed regretfully.

**

"You come from where?"

"Westeros," the boy – boy king, he'd learned, at least lately, by the name of Robb Stark – repeated for what was at least the fourth time. "Winterfell. Which I was the _heir _to, until recently." Stark looked annoyed again, frowning and tapping one hand on his thigh in a nervous gesture. Galad pushed the tea his direction in a suggestive sort of way, but Robb ignored it entirely.

"And you're really – supposed to be dead?" Galad wasn't sure which part of this was strangest: the fact that this stranger came from nowhere that was within the known world – or his known world, anyway, or that he was dead, or so he claimed, or that they were sitting down in his tent and carrying out a (fairly) normal conversation.

"Yes," said Robb Stark tightly. Galad frowned, slightly, at the untouched tea.

"Do they not drink tea, in your – Winterfell?"

For a moment he expected that the boy would simply flay him with his eyes. Then he looked back down. "We have tea, yes. I simply do not care for it at the moment."

"Alcohol is a vice that has proved fatal to many a great man," Galad intoned, and was surprised when the boy-king's hand slammed down on the small crate they were using as a table.

"Dammit, I know that, I don't _care _right now! _I'm _dead, my siblings are dead or vanished, my father was murdered and my mother likely as well. And most of the good men who were following me are likely dead as well. _I think that calls for a drink._"

Galadedrid was taken aback, a bit. And then he realized, as the boy's auburn head slipped forward into his hands, that his shoulders were shaking with quiet sobs. And was abruptly awash in a deep sea of _awkward. _ "I'm – sorry?" He attempted, awkwardly, and was rewarded for his effort by a red eyed but no less fierce glare.

"_Thank _you. As that is so very productive."

"Well, what do you want me to do, bring you back to _life_?"

"That would be better than offering me tea and pointless apologies!"

"There is _nothing _wrong with my tea," Galad shouted angrily, jolting to his feet, and the Stark boy followed him there, so they stood fists clenched staring at each other for several moments before realizing something, seemingly at the same time. They colored identical reds.

"I should not have lost my temper," said Robb stiffly. "It was uncalled for."

"I should not have let mine get the better of me," Galad said, sheepishly. "It is a Child of the Light's duty to be compassionate to those in need."

They eyed each other a few moments more, then Robb picked up his teacup and sipped, awkwardly. There was a bit of a silence.

"I guess I really am dead," he said, eventually, and then grimaced. "Gods. That's a surreal sentence."

"For _you,_" Galad said, and took a gulp of his tea, rapidly. Robb sighed.

"I guess I can't really go back, can I?"

Galad examined him, trying to gauge that tone. He decided to be truthful. "No, probably not."

Robb sighed, heavily. "I hope Jeyne's all right. I wish I could do something about those damned Freys…breaking guest right, gods, I didn't think even they…" A pause, and he rubbed his nose absently before suddenly breaking into a grin. "I wish I could see what the Greatjon will do to them," he said, almost brightly. "He's going to be _pissed._"

Galad wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but it seemed diplomatic to agree. "Mmm," he said, noncommittally, and went back to sipping his tea.


End file.
